


can’t take my eyes off of you

by rainshowers



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: M/M, immortal!seungcheol, vampire!jeonghan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-13 22:19:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16027121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainshowers/pseuds/rainshowers
Summary: He may have survived his sleep, but even a hundred years underground would never make him forget those pair of fire-lit eyes.





	1. ACT I

**Author's Note:**

> the ‘diary format’ at the beginning of some scenes in this fic is inspired by one of my favorite series of all time, Michael Scott’s **[The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel](https://www.amazon.com/Secrets-Immortal-Nicholas-Flamel-Book/dp/B00VZIQDXE)**. go check the series out if you haven’t read any
> 
> of the books yet!

 

**n. prologue.**

 

 

Here lies my truth.

I am writing for the reason that I know my days are numbered. I can feel it in the air the same way I know my ravens can feel it. I can smell the dark, heady scent of death lingering over my head wherever I go and I know it is only a matter of time before the Order discovers what I have done. I have committed the highest level of treason and death would be the only reasonable punishment they would give me. In all my years of practice and perfecting the mystical arts, I have created what the Order deems to be the vilest creature of nature: a mongrel—part bloodsucker and part loup-garou. I knew the risks of completing the ritual and breaking my oath, but it was the only way I know I could assure the survival of the only person I know and love. Perhaps I will not be remembered, not by my family, not by many of my friends, and most certainly not by the Order. But I know what I did and I know who I am.

I am a son of man, an immortal, the bearer of the Book of Abramelin the Mage, the Key of Solomon, and the Elixir of Life. But I am also an apostate, an oathbreaker, a warlock, and a defier of nature.

My dear, let it be known that before I return to the ground, I have left a part of who I am behind.

I am the lost apprentice.

Excerpt from _Les Journaux Intimes de M. S. Coups_  
Writ this eight day of August in the year of our Lord, one thousand eight hundred ninety-nine

 

 

**i. péripatéticien**

 

 

Wednesday, 11:48 PM  
3rd October 2018

Some decades ago, a wise man once told him that immortality was only a curse disguised as a blessing.

And oh, what a blessing it was.

He became rich, both materially and spiritually. He was often called _le salaud riche d’Orient_ by his masters, particularly one named Mme. Perenelle Flamel, the very spouse of the person who asked him to wipe his legacy from history so people would dismiss them as nothing but ‘legends’ of a fictional person. He owned many estates and villas in his prime, some even as grand as Louis-Auguste’s Château de Versailles. He met many people, the known and the unknown, the rich and the underprivileged, the normal and the paranormal, and the mortals and the immortals.

Yet, even with all that, he was alone.

He had outlived all of his relatives, their sons, and their sons’ sons. He had outlived prominent figures in history, people who had freely given their blood and life for the betterment of the society. He had outlived his friends who, no matter how much he liked to call them ‘friends’, were never on his side. He had lived and fought in many great wars, even the secret ones, and saw his comrades die on the battlefield, their hands gripping him tightly as their souls slowly slip away from their bodies. He had more encounters with Death than with the deities guarding him yet still he lived and lived and lived, surviving each century without so much as a scratch.

He only wished the wise man had warned him of the consequences before he jabbed M. Nicolas Flamel’s golden elixir into his veins... because while he had everything, he was now left with nothing.

As a young boy, he had a fairly normal life. Coming from the lower class without any connections to even low ranking authorities, he started as a stable boy for the family of a junior first rank official at the age of seven. At thirteen, he managed to escape Hyeonjeong and his little kingdom with the Dutch to Japan, leaving his family behind to secure his future and pursue his dream of being a trader. He then joined some of the Dutch crew on a journey to the Netherlands where he learned new languages, adjusted to new cultures, and pretended to be a wealthy merchant prince from a faraway kingdom somewhere in the Orient. No one even dared to question the web of lies he had spun, the authenticity of the countless jewelry he had owned, nor the effectiveness of the potions he had sold.

At twenty, he had accumulated enough wealth from being a con artist to travel to England and seek a formal education in Cambridge where he was fortunate enough to befriend a fellow who went by the pen name of Jehovah Sanctus Unus, a genius mathematician who was eleven years his senior, who then introduced him to the Secret Order of Quīncunx, the highest order of European alchemists created by the five guardians of the original philosopher’s stone. He spent two and a half years mastering the art—reading, memorizing, and putting into practice the words of countless grimoires supplied to him until finally, at the age of twenty-three, he met his masters in person for the first time: _the Flamels_.

His train of thought was interrupted by a series of rapid vibrations from his back pocket. He took out the disposable phone he had bought specifically for his job, thumbing at the round-shaped selection key for a moment, before stubbing his cigarette onto the ashtray and standing up, looking for anyone who might be watching him. Ever since he came back, he isolated himself from anything that could bring him any unwanted attention, deciding that it was best to start a new life by being a part-time background consulting detective for his new city’s police force.

It was a dead night. The only people out on the streets were either walking fast or riding their bicycles. It was an uncommon thing to happen in a busy neighborhood in October. The birds, however, appeared restless. His ravens, Ortus and Occāsa, were circling each other and making short, repeated shrill calls overhead as if trying to warn him of a potential threat nearby. He closed his eyes briefly, trying to see what his ravens were seeing, but their visions were blocked by an unseen force.

The phone on his hand vibrated again, a bright alert showing him that he had one unread message begging to be read.

He took one last look at his ravens, gesturing for them to come down, before opening the message. There were no instructions attached to it, only the numbers 1-8-7, the country’s police code for murder, with an address underneath. He stopped and reread the address again and again and again until he remembered why it was so damn familiar.

It was the house he woke up to five years ago.

 

☽

 

The half-hour drive to the house was tense. The Hobbses, Garret and Louise, were the ones who found his body in their backyard while they were digging their then would-be pool. The couple didn’t bother calling the police at the time for reasons they never told him and he was forever grateful that they were the ones who found him. But even though he had wiped their memories clean of him or that day, knowing that the murder happened in their house just didn’t sit right with him.

He stopped his car a few meters away from the house, glancing over at the ambulance and the two police cars parked across, before shifting his eyes to the yellow police tape that was stretched from the front lawn all the way to the house’s backyard. He spotted Captain Poirot, the one who took him in the force, approaching him with his eyebrows furrowed.

“Thank you for being here as soon as possible,” the captain said and gave him a pat on his shoulder before telling him to come with him.

They crossed the lawn and took the small path beside the house to the backyard. Poirot excused himself to let him assess the situation in front of him with no further distraction.

He took one look at Abigail, Garret and Louise’s only child, and he felt sick.

A part of him wanted to scream, a part of him wanted to get away from the house as soon as possible, and another part of him wanted to kill everyone gathered around in cold blood. He did none of those, of course. He had dealt with deaths far worse than what he had on his plate at the moment. Instead, he just stood there and stared intently at the lifeless body floating on a wooden raft in the pool of blood, occasionally catching the baffled faces of his fellow detectives inspecting it.

She was just a child, turning nine this December if he could remember correctly.

Judging by where the body was placed and the overall presentation of how she was killed, the idea that maybe the killing had something to do with a few traces of his aura that he had left behind after he had wiped their memories lingered at the back of his head.

To the naked eye, it would look as if the killer wanted to perform a Viking Age-styled burial tradition on her, but left it there without setting it on fire so as not to alert the neighbors. According to Occāsa, most of the people around seemed to think so, too, going as far as suggesting that the killer was a highly-intelligent, Viking-fanatic psychopath. He even heard Jackson, one of the profilers, suggest that it might be a serial killer and that they should start drafting the killer’s profile as early as now before the situation worsened. He, on the other hand, was sure it wasn’t any of that.

It was a taunt, a threat, and a present all in one wrap.

The raft carrying the girl’s body was made of red oak, each one carved with a pointed end that was sharp enough to pierce through skin. For centuries, oak had been used by a lot of people for a lot of different purposes: for commoners, it represented protection; for witches, it represented magic, and; for him, it represented life. Oak, however, was also the very same sticks that Vlad III used to impale the Turks back in the mid-1400s before popular culture turned him into the face of the undead.

“Seungcheol.”

He glanced sideward and saw the unsettled look on the source of the voice. It was Vernon, an undergraduate student with little-to-no experience, but had enough courage to go into the field. They had been in two burglary cases before where he learned that the young man was also a painter and that his best works depicted gruesomely detailed scenarios of the worst cases in his forensic psychology class. Seungcheol thought the young man would make a great serial killer if he wanted to. Vernon’s face right now, however, appeared ashen and his eyes were glassy as if he had just discovered an important piece of a long-lost artifact. He was trying to conceal what looked like a vial in his pocket and Seungcheol easily caught on.

“Food dye,” he said nonchalantly and returned his attention on the corpse which was now being carefully carried by a team of examiners to the side. He noticed the deflated state of the body and his spirit spiraled even further down the drain.

Vernon must have had a momentary shock with Seungcheol’s response because he took out the vial in his pocket and looked at it in a new found light. “How did you know?”

“There wasn’t a smell,” Seungcheol pointed out. It would’ve been obvious to any detective, but he didn’t call Vernon on it. The man was barely just starting a career in the force and Seungcheol knew he’d learn about it in a week or two. Blood generally smelled far worse outside a dead body than it did inside. That was the first evidence that Seungcheol tried to interpret when he arrived at the scene. _Why would the killer place enough effort to put food dye in the pool instead of just leaving it empty?_ It didn’t make any sense especially if the killer was just taunting its audience.

The other wrote it on a small notepad he was carrying and read out a few of the other information he had written. “There were no signs of struggle or force on the body. The team doubts the killer sexually assaulted her, but they’re still looking for any trace of possible DNA.”

Seungcheol took in what he said. It made sense. It wasn’t the killer’s purpose to corrupt her.

Rather than commenting on the facts that he was presented, he looked at Vernon and nodded to the body. “Her blood was drained.”

Vernon stilled and looked paler, but he was trying to maintain his cool façade in front of him. Seungcheol had to give it to him, though. It was his first murder case and most first-timers often vomit at the sight of a dead body, but the kid didn’t even show any sign of backing out. Seungcheol himself would’ve fainted back in the day. It took Vernon a few seconds before he looked back at his notes and winced. “I’m not so sure about that. The killer wouldn’t have been able to drain all the blood in her system from the only two holes on her wrists in just minutes.”

 _Not if you know where to press_ , Seungcheol said in his head.

He didn’t say anything more and Vernon took it as a sign to leave him alone to his thoughts. He pondered on what the other told him, turning his words over and over again in his head. Seungcheol saw the two clean holes on her left wrist. They didn’t even have any blood stains. Whoever did the killing made sure that the police would know what they were, but would find the conclusion ridiculous as they were only dismissed as fiction. An unusual thought flickered in his mind, one that he remembered all those years ago during the Great Hunt, the war that made him what he was today: the killer went for her wrist, not her jugular.

This wasn’t just a gimmick. She was intentionally picked as the sacrificial lamb.

He saw Vernon through his periphery a moment later, motioning for him to come over to where the body was transferred. Seungcheol sighed, walking over to the team. He didn’t want to inspect her body up close. She had been a part of his past, albeit only a short time, and knowing that he may have had something to do with her death would haunt his conscience forever.

Seungcheol peered through the wall of detectives and instantly caught what it was that needed his attention.

The girl’s mouth was halfway opened and was filled with what looked like twigs inside. Seungcheol squeezed through to get a closer look, but almost stepped back in horror. Inside the girl’s mouth was a dead scarlet tanager on a nest made of sage smudge sticks. All the trouble the killer went through to put the food dye in the pool suddenly made sense.

The sacrifice only meant one thing: _war._

Despite all the noise, Seungcheol suddenly felt his surroundings stilled as a wave of flashback washed over him. He had experienced this same eerie feeling before; once during the night before he completed the ritual of mongrel while the first one was almost three hundred years ago during a pleasant Sunday night on this very same date back in 1733.

A cold gust of wind knocked the air out of his lungs as he felt a pair of eyes digging at the back of his skull, asking for his attention. Seungcheol turned around and searched the perimeter, his eyes desperately looking for anything out of the ordinary.

And then, like Hades emerging from his palace in the underworld, he saw _him_.

 

 

**s. l’inoubliable.**

 

 

Even as the years went by, I could still recall the face of the man I had once encountered when I visited M. Flamel’s grave on a quiet Sunday evening in the early fall of the year 1733.

He was standing in front of the empty grave with his hands inside the pockets of his coat and his back against the pale moonlight while offering, what I presumed at the time, a silent prayer. You see, my dear, I had no prior knowledge of who this man was, thus I initially thought of him as an apprentice of the Order like myself as we were forbidden to know each other’s identities. As he turned and stared at me, however, I was more than surprised to see that he was of the Orient. His hair was as dark as the night, his skin was as white as snow, and his hooded eyes were lit with fire. He was exactly what I thought an angel of Death would look like. I could never explain why I never initiated a conversation that night, but I could tell you the reason why I could still remember him to this day: his was the first set of vampire fangs I had ever seen. 

Excerpt from _Les Journaux Intimes de M. S. Coups_  
Writ this fourth day of October in the year of our Lord, one thousand eight hundred ninety-nine

 

 

**ii. retrovailles**

 

 

Thursday, 01:33 AM  
4th October 2018

During his early years in France, he was told several stories about a coven called the Fyrst Children of Scot, after the warlock who created the coven during the mid-thirteenth century, which was the oldest coven in existence. They were savages who loved to bring chaos with them in every place they went. Unfortunately for them, vampires in the present were reduced to nothing more than glittering, sun-hating bloodsuckers who were crazy about love.

While their portrayal in modern times rang some sort of truth in them, it was a shame that the vampires now were not anymore revered by the people who once used to go through lengths of blood sacrifice only to appease them.

As vampires, werewolves, and the shifters were all considered by his masters as a disgrace to nature, he never once spoke to them about what he saw on the Monsieur’s grave during his time with the Order, but that didn’t mean the vivid dreams he had of the vampire staring at him didn’t plague him every time he shut his eyes for almost five years. The dreams stopped eventually, however, and he lived in wonder about what happened to the vampire he saw that night. There was just something in his aura that had drawn him in. It was too powerful—too potent—to forget.

And now, two hundred and eighty-five years later, he was here within his reach.

Seungcheol didn’t even bother asking for permission before he left the crime scene. He was just consulting, after all, and he couldn’t waste any more time in just one particular area. If catching a _novus_ was hard enough even for a veteran staker, finding a _fyrst_ was far harder. They could disappear underground for a hundred years without leaving a trail. If that happened, Seungcheol would have to go around in circles or find out the hard way why the undead would dare wage a war in this century.

Before the man vanished into the night and left behind a trail of smoke, indicating that he wanted to be followed, there was a strange intensity in his eyes that captivated Seungcheol and reminded him of home. Vampires were known for their ability to entrap someone under their spell, but mind control by a novus or any new-age vampire would usually feel intrusive even for any supernatural being after it had worn off. It wasn’t like that with this one.

If anything, Seungcheol only felt empty.

He followed the nearly invisible wisps of smoke until it got fainter and fainter, wary of any set of eyes that might be watching him on the empty street. Ortus and Occāsa were quietly watching him pass, flying from each tree branch onto another until the smoke disappeared in front of an establishment with a big **_PUBTASTIC!_ OPEN 24/7** neon signage. Seungcheol went in and saw something that immediately made him stop.

Everyone was breathing, but no single soul was moving.

He’s had many encounters with vampires in his life as an apprentice for the Order, most of them even got incinerated by his own hands during the Great Hunt, but he’d only seen this phenomenon once... and the Čachtice Countess made sure Seungcheol would never forget it.

“I can’t believe it took you that long to find me,” a voice from the far end of the bar said, prompting Seungcheol to shift his gaze away from the bright lights of the counter and let his eyes adjust to the darkness from where the voice came from. He stalked forward, ready to strike, but he remembered that whereas the humans were frozen, they could still hear and see everything.

“Relax,” the man said with a smile. “They won’t even know we were here once we leave this bar. We’re the same, you and I. We love fiddling with other people’s memories.”

Now that Seungcheol could get a good look at the man, he was surprised that the man appeared exactly the same as he did all those years ago in front of M. Flamel’s grave. He was still pale, his almost dark-brown eyes still had that predatory gaze, and his hair, even though it was cut short and slicked backward, was still as dark as the night. It was as if Seungcheol woke up to a dream of a dream.

It took him a moment to gather his thoughts, awe-struck at the reality that he was looking at someone who looked like his age but had lived as long as he did. The man must’ve noticed him spacing out as he tapped his hand loudly on the table before flashing him a grin wide enough for Seungcheol to see his fangs. Seungcheol looked at him hard-eyed.

“If you had anything to do with the girl’s murder, tell me now before I end you.”

“You think I did that to that poor girl?” the man asked with raised eyebrows, clearly feigning offense as if he had just been accused of something he wouldn’t have the stomach to do.

“Why else would you be there tonight?” Seungcheol countered.

“Please, detective. You give me too much credit. I’m not into theatrics,” the man replied in a scoff. He stood up, walked past Seungcheol into the bartender, and helped himself to a pint of beer before turning back to Seungcheol with a smile. “I was just there to check if the rumors were true.”

It was Seungcheol’s turn to raise a brow. He hadn’t heard anything from anyone since he came back. No even dared to follow up on him. As far as he knew, he was all alone and everyone he knew thought he was dead. “Rumors?”

“That someone’s waging a war against _les immortels_.” The man downed his beer in one fluid motion and licked the foam residue on his top lip. Smiling when he caught Seungcheol’s eyes following the movement of his tongue. “But you already knew that, don’t you?”

Seungcheol glowered at him. “By _someone_ you mean a vampire.”

“Was it really?” The man asked while pouring himself another pint. This time he didn’t drink it, but rather he slid the glass onto the counter until it stopped to where Seungcheol was standing. “You say the word as if it offends you so much.”

“It does,” Seungcheol said with no bite. He looked at the glass and watched as the bubbles go downwards to the bottom instead of upwards to the lid. “Your kind is an abomination.”

The man chuckled, making his way to the bartender and sliding a couple of cash onto the bartender’s back pocket before looking up at Seungcheol with a mischievous grin. “And what about you, detective? Tell me, what kind of abomination are you?”

“I’m not.” Seungcheol shrugged and raised his glass at him. “Maybe we’re not so the same, you and I.”

“We’ll see about that,” the man said with a smile and looked at his watch. “I only have an hour left before my children will come and look for me. I assume you’ve been in this city long enough to know where its neutral ground is located. Meet me there during our prime hour. We both know we have a lot to catch up on.”

With a wink, the man turned to his heels and walked away. Seungcheol felt lightheaded and there was a strange twist in his gut that made him want to vomit.

“Vampire,” he called just before the man opened the door. “What’s your name?”

The man turned and met his eyes. Seungcheol was almost sure that the light in the man’s eyes was dancing like wildfire. “Oh, Mr. Holmes, I would love to tell you, but then, of course, _I’d have to kill you._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 the Hobbses—Garret, Louise, and Abigail—were all adapted characters from an amazingly well-executed show with great cinematography and storyline (though one which i advise staying away from if you’re terrified of blood) called **[Hannibal](https://www.nbc.com/hannibal/episodes/season-1)**.
> 
> 2 _novus_ means new.


	2. ACT II

**s. aequinoctium.**

 

 

The miracle of life is an odd thing, my dear. Once it let you taste it, you will never get enough of it.

I realise this as I pack my things and let my mind wander about my inevitable doom. I have departed London twenty days ago for good and I expect to arrive on American soil by noon on the morrow. Europe will always have a special place in my heart as I had considered the continent as my second home, but I will not last long enough to pass on the _Tresvita_ —Abramelin’s Book, Solomon’s Key, and Flamel’s Elixir—had I stayed there for more than a fortnight. In a span of three months after the turn of the year, I have observed more than ten wizards watching my every move in public and over five veiled witches lurking in the shadows as I walk home at night.

Life is a beauty, my dear, and after two hundred and forty-seven years, I am running out of it. So I will let you on a secret that only the both of us know. The very moment I have secured the Tresvita, I will personally ask Death to accompany me to the netherworld.

Excerpt from _Les Journaux Intimes de M. S. Coups_  
Writ this twenty-first day of March in the year of our Lord, one thousand nine hundred

 

 

**iii. nōmināre**

 

 

Thursday, 9:03 PM  
4th October 2018

The number nine held a lot of significance in his fields of expertise. 

When he was still new to the endless wonders of the mystical arts, he had always attributed it to Hecate, the great goddess of magic whose powers transcended the boundaries of mythology. In some mortal interpretations, the number nine was said to represent the art of creation, balance, and long life that even the oldest existing fraternal organization in the world regarded it as a symbol of immortality.

He soon learned that _post meridiem_ , nine was also considered by the undead as their feeding hour or, as the man at the bar had mentioned, the hour of their prime.

Apart from the required briefing and report that he needed to share with the force, Seungcheol had the whole day to think things through. He knew it wasn’t safe for him, nor for anyone he had ever been acquainted with for that matter, to consult with the force anymore... especially now that he had been found by a creature of the night. Deep down, he had already sensed that it was only a matter of time before he was to be found by a creature of the light— _or so what they call themselves_. Abigail’s death was just the impetus for something far greater, but he could almost feel the certainty that there would be more human casualties.

 _Human casualties_ , Seungcheol repeated slowly to himself. One thing was sure. The killer didn’t want this war to be contained within the supernatural realm. They wanted to make sure that when everything was over, the otherworld will be uncovered to the mortal plane.

He stopped in front of a coffee shop, which was an hour drive away from the bar where he met the man, and it was full of people—students stressing over their research and homeworks, people happily chatting with their friends and enjoying their iced lattes, former colleagues catching up, and a couple assessing their relationship—yet with this much energies and emotions, the place still felt cold and empty. There wasn’t any hint of magic on neutral grounds. Vampires, werewolves, sorcerers, and other beings used to make accords and peace treaties on sites such as this for the reason that the place hindered them from using their _gifts_. That made neutral grounds a safe haven for anyone seeking short-termed asylum from their enemies. For when someone entered a neutral ground, no supernatural being will be able to hurt them.

Except if one was hiding from a warlock or a rogue creature of the night, of course.

Seungcheol took the abandoned trail leading to the forest behind the coffee shop and whispered a spell so as to not step on anything that may cause a loud noise. While he wasn’t harnessing his powers from nature anymore, the heart of the neutral ground could still weaken him and block any spell that it deemed unnecessary to be cast. Ortus flew to his shoulder a few moments later and cawed softly to his ear, informing him that the man was already here.

Around twenty minutes of walking from the direction of the coffee shop, the trail he took led him to a clearing with a large black stone erected in the middle. He had only visited this place once and thought of the stone as nothing else but a landmark for the heart. The light of the moon showed him, however, that the almost invisible glowing pairs of trident-shaped runes, one normal and one inverted, etched repeatedly and precisely onto the stone’s smooth surface. It was _Algiz_ , the magical rune of protection for the Norse people.

“You came.”

It was barely a whisper to the empty air yet he managed to hear it as clear as day. The voice was followed by the sight of the man emerging from behind the stone with a grin.

In contrast to his earlier outfit, the man was now wearing a plain white shirt, fortunately with no sign of bloodstains, and his hair was neatly parted in the middle. Seungcheol had been able to memorize the man’s features during their brief meeting and he had already learned that each smile indicated different meanings. This one, for example, had a hint of both shock and satisfaction with it.

The man walked a few steps forward and was now standing in front of the stone, about ten steps from where Seungcheol kept his ground. “Are you usually this amenable to an abomination like myself or am I just a lucky exception?”

His face almost betrayed his composure to indulge the other with a smile, but Seungcheol kept a tighter hold on it. He knew he could be unknowingly walking into a cleverly-executed trap. Being friendly with an undead, after all, would only lure him somewhere he had no intention of going. Vampires were reborn as deceivers the moment they had been turned and Seungcheol couldn’t afford to make the mistake of trusting one.

He tipped his chin up and leveled his gaze straight into the man’s eyes. “Finished hunting?”

The man’s grin widened and he could see the visible sparks of fire in his eyes as his pupils dilated. It was almost as if it was the reaction he was expecting Seungcheol to show. The man tilted his head to the side, one part curiosity and one part a challenge. “I see someone’s not feeling very chatty tonight. You misprize me, detective. I’m sure your big brain has already figured out that I don’t hunt.”

Seungcheol’s jaw tightened by instinct. Not only was the man challenging him, but he was also ridiculing his intellect. “Finished feeding, then.”

“That’s cute,” the man put one foot forward but didn’t let the other one follow. The grin he was wearing never left his face, but it was replaced with another kind of grin, one that was cocky and assured. “You’re more naïve than I initially thought you were.”

“I’m not here to play your games or hear your insults,” Seungcheol said, mirroring the other man’s motion by tentatively putting one foot forward, but instead of leaving the other one, he dragged it forward, closing the gap between them by one step. “Who are you?”

The man stepped his other foot to match his other one. The spark of fire in his eyes seemed to shine brighter. _This is amusing to him_ , Seungcheol thought to himself. “Are you sure you don’t want to play my games, detective? I was told that I can be very playful.”

“Answer my question, vampire.” The words came out rather softly and the opposite of what he was trying to achieve. Behind the man, the runes on the stone glowed and dimmed, mimicking that of a heartbeat. The man simply shrugged. “Well, that’s a shame. For a moment, I thought we were making such great progress this morning.”

There was a pregnant pause as the man stared him down. He was scrutinizing him, ripping him apart piece by piece in his mind, and Seungcheol just stood there and let him. The man took another step. Somewhere west of the forest, Ortus let out a harsh grating sound.

“My children call me Jeonghan.”

Seungcheol was sure he didn’t move a muscle, but a faint eye twitch must’ve given away that he was intrigued. “And that’s your real name?”

“Like _Seungcheol_ is your real name?” The man— _Jeonghan_ , he corrected himself as the realization that he finally had a name to the face he had been so curious about dawned on him—gave him the same mischievous grin he’d shown him before he left the bar. _Of course_ , the man could’ve easily compelled someone from the force to tell him his name. Seungcheol narrowed his disapproving eyes by a fraction and Jeonghan let out a soft dramatic sigh. “Don’t look at me like that, detective, you’ll make me blush.”

“I doubt it,” Seungcheol answered flatly without emotion. He didn’t trust him even though his eyes felt like home. There was a daring energy surrounding Jeonghan that Seungcheol couldn’t recognize. The runes can tell what sort of energy he had, however, and he could sense that they warning him, or rather everyone, about the person harboring it.

It was an energy that was far too strong for even the heart of a neutral ground to hold.

“Always so icy. I’m starting to think you’re a vampire yourself.” Jeonghan’s eyes resembled an untamed fire as he said the words. Seungcheol didn’t how it was possible for eyes that were so dark to shine so bright, but there they were. The man held his gaze a little longer before unexpectedly casting his eyes downwards to the ground. It was a sign of submission. A sign of respect. “You knew her, didn’t you?”

Seungcheol’s gaze briefly flicked towards where Jeonghan was looking then back to the other’s face. Jeonghan did the same.

“You know you should stop asking questions you obviously know the answer to,” Seungcheol replied.

“I can control minds, detective, but I can’t read them.” Jeonghan took two steps forward, put his right hand in his pocket, and stared at him accusingly with a small smile. “As far as I’m concerned, the only thing I know about you is that you’ve killed a lot of my children during the Hunt.”

For the first time since he had arrived on this sacred ground, Seungcheol allowed himself to smile even just a little. He, himself, took another step. “I’ve killed a lot of fyrsts, too.”

“Not that I blame you,” Jeonghan said with meaning. There was a weird tinge of bitterness coupled with triumph that colored his words. Seungcheol realized then that he wasn’t accusing him. Jeonghan was giving him his personal seal of approval. “I would’ve annihilated them myself had I joined the war.”

Seungcheol blinked. It wasn’t the response he was expecting. Truth be told, he wanted to gauge and taunt Jeonghan until he revealed his gift, but the man just kept on surprising him. Hearing Jeonghan openly threatened the oldest coven in existence was new for him. As long as he could remember, every vampire who went and had spoken against the Children of Scot were given as presents to the werewolves and, in return, the werewolves will give them a renegade of their own. An abomination killing another abomination was a divine experience—one can even argue that it was every abomination’s favorite sport.

“You’re a nomad,” he stated dumbly after processing what Jeonghan had said.

Maybe he was right all along; maybe they were the same.

Jeonghan chuckled a quick melodious sound which seemed to tease him of life. “I prefer the term ‘rogue’ if you don’t mind. After all, the son of the Dragon’s achievements, had they been properly credited, were all mine.”

Seungcheol raised an eyebrow. “You’re older than me.”

“Even older than the man whose empty grave we had visited all those years ago, remember? Dante would have created a tenth circle had he known I existed.” Jeonghan stepped forward once more so that they were within arms reach. The man’s nostrils flared, indicating that he was smelling the magic that Seungcheol still had despite being on neutral grounds. “What about you, detective? What makes you so special that someone would take the time to orchestrate a dramatic declaration of war against you and your... _Council_ of sorcerers?”

Seungcheol smiled and took a step forward so that they were standing mere inches away from each other, close enough to see the mist coming out from their mouths. He was pleased to learn that he could look down at the man. “I have no Council.”

“You’re a warlock, huh? I’ve never heard of an immortal warlock before besides...”

The fire in Jeonghan’s eyes warped back into a spark and there was a mixture of disbelief and awe that came along with it. The man tentatively reached down to grab Seungcheol’s left arm, glancing at him as if to ask for permission, and slowly rolled up his sleeve until it reached his elbow.

Although Seungcheol convinced himself that he was simply returning the favor by letting Jeonghan know who he was, he couldn’t help but wonder why he wasn’t flinching away from his touch. Whatever dark energy surrounding Jeonghan was comforting him and he found himself wanting more of it. Seungcheol sighed and whispered, “ _Apparēre_.”

A burnt mark shaped like a square with five knots inside appeared just below the other side of his elbow. It was once made of pure gold, but it had burned itself when he turned away from the Order.

“ _Le apprenti perdu_.” Jeonghan’s breath hitched and the fire in his eyes once again ignited brightly, looking at Seungcheol with new found respect and interest. “You’re back.”

 

 

**s. meā culpā.**

 

 

I am tired, my dear.

I have been scouring this new country since the moment I have arrived in search for an heir to the Tresvita. I know I am partially to blame for I do not have the slightest idea what I am looking for in an heir. I thought maybe I just do not want to let go of it. The Tresvita has been my life’s core for centuries and I cannot simply give it to someone unworthy of the power the three items hold. I may have broken my oath to Order, but I cannot let my successor do the same thing to me. I must ensure that they will do the only other task I leave them with once I am gone.

I need them to wake me up.

Excerpt from _Les Journaux Intimes de M. S. Coups_  
Writ this thirtieth day of March in the year of our Lord, one thousand nine hundred

 

 

**iv. donec conveniamus**

 

 

_The lost apprentice._

The words hung in the air as Jeonghan kept his eyes on his face. Seungcheol rarely used the term to describe another supernatural being, but no one could deny that other was even more beautiful up close. His eyes hold a degree of innocence in them and his pale skin didn’t even give away that he was missing a soul. He could easily pass off as a human.

Jeonghan cleared his throat and stepped away from Seungcheol’s space. “Forgive me for being such a terrible guest,” he said and smiled apologetically. Jeonghan gestured behind him and said, “ _Bekkr._ ”

A comfortable-looking chair each appeared behind them and a small table, with sparkling white wine and different kinds of fruit desserts on top, appeared in the space between them. It was uncommon, but not entirely unheard of, for other gifted beings to master the mystical arts. However, they would be betraying both sides of the light and it would make it harder for them to live their lives without nuisance. He was impressed, nonetheless, because whereas Seungcheol commanded his aura using Latin, Jeonghan used Old Norse.

Seungcheol watched as the man casually whistled loudly while he was swirling his glass as if he was communicating his thoughts to the forest. Out in the woods, there was a faint flicker of energy, just strong enough to tell that there was someone out there listening to his whistling. When he stopped, he raised his glass to Seungcheol. “You’ve made yourself quite a reputation,” Jeonghan said after inhaling a deep whiff of the wine’s smell.

He had a lot of questions piled up in his mind about who this person really was. He knew that opening about one of them wouldn’t crack Jeonghan’s resolve. The vampire would be too wise for that.

“I never asked you what you were doing in Monsieur Flamel’s grave that night,” Seungcheol asked instead, taking a sip of his own wine. He wasn’t bothered whether the glass was laced with poison or not. He was already immune to it.

“I was paying my respects.” Jeonghan replied with a shrug. It didn’t sound genuine. If anything, it sounded like he couldn’t be bothered with anything concerning Flamel.

“Were you also an apprentice of the Order?” Seungcheol asked again, completely forgetting that Jeonghan had already mentioned that he was even older than Nicolas Flamel.

“I was an apprentice, yes,” the man said with a small smile playing on his lips, “but my master was _The Alchemist_ long before yours.” Unlike his answer regarding why he was visiting Flamel’s grave, this one was full of hatred and spite. The intensity surprised Seungcheol, especially because he knew exactly whom Jeonghan was referring to and that person died almost a hundred years before his master was even born.

There were hundreds of alchemists before Flamel, but only one was worthy enough to hold the same title.

Seungcheol watched as his empty crystal glass filled again and let his eyes drift off to see Jeonghan’s reaction once he dropped his name. “Michael Scot?”

Jeonghan smirked and drained his glass. Like Seungcheol’s, Jeonghan’s glass refilled itself, but it didn’t stop until it was filled to the rim. The man looked at him once again. “Curious, isn’t it? I hope he’s enjoying his stay in the eighth circle of Dante’s hell.”

“You were the first fyrst,” Seungcheol said in awe. The lack of sympathy in Jeonghan’s words was intriguing, to say the least. “Why do you hate them so much?”

“Have you ever seen the movie called _The Godfather_ since you’ve awoken?” Jeonghan asked him back.

He had watched it. In fact, it was the last film he had seen just hours before Abigail was murdered. Seungcheol gave him a single nod. “I have.”

“Like the Don’s favorite son, I did everything I could for my family. When it came down to choosing sides, they ended up betraying me while Scot ended up siding with them.” Jeonghan looked up wistfully at the moon for a moment, trying to relive the past in his mind. He smirked and returned his eyes to Seungcheol. “So I killed him with my bare hands and fed him to the wolves.”

The words didn’t send a shock through him as he had expected. He was more impressed that he had succeeded in killing him. Seungcheol made sure to let the man know his thoughts of him through the small movements of his face. “You killed your own master.”

Jeonghan looked at him meaningfully and recited the words he had once written with ink on paper. “It was the only way I know I could assure the survival of the only person I know and love.”

“And that is...?” Seungcheol prodded.

The man sitting across him looked pleased with his question. “Myself.”

In a distance, a dog howled and caught Jeonghan’s attention. He didn’t shift his gaze towards the direction of the sound. He had heard it before. The dog was singing to the night, offering his ode to the moon as if she was his bride, and thought of her as beautiful and worthy of his affection. When the song stopped, Seungcheol opened his mouth to say something, but Jeonghan beat him to it.

“I don’t want to prolong on unimportant topics any longer, detective. I want to inform you that my whistlers told me that Flamel and his Order already know about the killer’s little stunt. The Five has planned to come here.”

The last sentence made him scoff unattractively. “The Five? They didn’t even fight with us during the Great Hunt. They wouldn’t concern themselves with this war if they could just watch and save themselves in the background.”

“They’re not coming because of the war, detective,” Jeonghan whispered softly like that of a lover telling a secret. “They’re coming for the Tresvita and then they’re coming for you.”

Seungcheol looked away and stood up. “Better to pack my things before they catch me, then.”

“Catch you? When you know deep down that you’re out for the Order’s blood?” Jeonghan mirrored his movements and waved his hand to the things he had created to make them disappear. “ _Vreka._ ”

“Let me help you,” the man told him with conviction.

“What makes you think I trust you?” Seungcheol countered.

“Only a fool would trust me.” Jeonghan grinned mischievously. “But as Don Corleone said, I’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

A shadow appeared out of the woods as if it had been staying there all this time. Seungcheol recognized that shadow. He had memorized it before he had gone underground. The moonlight revealed the face of the owner of the shadow and he greeted Seungcheol with a smile and a polite, “Hello, master.”

Seungcheol, however, didn’t return him his courtesy.

“Hello, Joshua.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3 [Vlad III](https://www.livescience.com/40843-real-dracula-vlad-the-impaler.html), the son of the Dragon.
> 
> 4 the _Five_ , the guardians of the original philosopher's stone: [Bernardus Trevisanus](https://www.encyclopedia.com/people/literature-and-arts/spanish-and-portuguese-literature-biographies/bernard-trevisan), [Johannes de Lasnioro](https://wikivisually.com/wiki/Johann_of_Laz), [George Ripley](http://www.levity.com/alchemy/ripworks.html), Perenelle Flamel, and Nicolas Flamel.


End file.
